Lawrence Block - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 2. Whole No. 834, February 2011

“There was an advertisement in the New York Times for a company that offers a discreet but efficient service. I took them on a month’s trial and was extremely satisfied. They’ve given me peace of mind, Mr. Lyman. My wife and I are no longer afraid to venture out after dark. We feel secure.”

“According to Mr. Culver, your bodyguard also keeps an eye on your home at night. Does that involve a full-time presence?”

“No — he or a colleague goes past at regular intervals.”

“That kind of protection must be rather expensive,” said Lyman.

“I’d pay anything to ensure our safety. Yes,” he went on, holding up a hand, “I know what you’re thinking. You believe that the firm providing the bodyguard might have deliberately frightened me in order to get my business — that was my first thought as well. I’m a lawyer, remember. I check and double-check everything. I had one of my clerks look very closely at this firm and it turned out to be entirely trustworthy. It’s run by a man of proven integrity. I can’t speak more highly of him.”

“In that case, perhaps I should recommend him to Mr. Culver.”

“That’s for you to decide. I’m not here to advertise the firm. All I know is that they’ve helped my wife and me to sleep more peacefully at night. Nobody can put a price on that.”

“Do you have the address of this firm, Mr. Hazelhurst?”

“Yes,” said the lawyer, opening a drawer to search inside it. “I have a business card somewhere. Ah — here we are,” he went on, taking out a card and offering it. “The office is not in the most salubrious part of the city, but don’t be put off by appearances.”

“I never am,” said Lyman, getting up to take the card from him. “Thank you, Mr. Hazelhurst. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Please give my warmest regards to Culver.”

“I’ll make a point of doing so, sir.”

“How badly was he injured?”

“I think his pride was hurt as much as his body. It just never crossed his mind that such a thing could happen to him. However, he seems to be a resilient man. I fancy that he’ll be back on his feet again before too long.”

Matthew Steen was a muscular young man in his twenties with a shock of red hair and a tufted beard. His fondness for whiskey, allied to a short temper, had got him into many tavern brawls, and his broken nose was a vivid memento of one of them. Steen did a variety of jobs, but his main source of income was Jeb Lyman. While he knew the man’s weaknesses, the detective also appreciated his many strengths. Steen was alert, tenacious, and fearless. More to the point, he was very reliable.

Lyman found him at his lodging, chopping wood in the garden. Having built up a rhythm, Steen was splitting the timber with power and accuracy. When he saw his friend, he broke off.

“You’ve got work for me, Mr. Lyman?” he asked, hopefully.

“Yes, Matt,” said the other with a friendly smile. “It’s rather more subtle than swinging an axe. I need you to apply for a job.”

“But I’m already employed by you.”

Taking out the business card given to him by Hazelhurst, the detective explained what he wanted. Steen liked what he heard. It was the sort of assignment that appealed to him. He did, however, foresee a potential problem.

“What if they offer me a job?” he said, worriedly. “I can hardly turn it down.”

“They won’t do that,” Lyman promised. “Even if they considered taking you on, they’d want to make inquiries about you first and your criminal record would deter them.”

“I’m not a real criminal, Mr. Lyman.”

“I know, Matt, but the fact remains that you’ve seen the inside of the Tombs a number of times — mostly, I grant you, for being drunk and disorderly, but there was that sentence you served for wrecking all the furniture in a tavern.”

“That was a mistake,” claimed Steen. “They arrested the wrong man. All I did was to break a few chairs over people’s heads.”

“Be that as it may,” said Lyman, “a firm like this one will think twice about employing someone with your history. If — that is — they’re as thorough and honest as I’m led to believe. That’s your first task. Sniff out the place. See if it really is a legitimate business. Even though it’s not the prettiest part of your anatomy, you have a nose for villainy. Use it.”

“What else must I do?”

“Get a sample of Barnett Lovell’s handwriting. According to that card, he runs the firm. If my guess is right, some of the people on his payroll can barely write their names. Their assets are more physical.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Lyman.”

“Come to my office in two hours. I should be back by then.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the offices of the New York Times, ” said Lyman. “I need to look at an advertisement.”

Matt Steen was punctual. He arrived on time at Lyman’s office and wore a broad grin. Sensing that his friend had good news to report, the detective poured them both a shot of whiskey. Steen threw his down in one grateful gulp.

“I didn’t need my famous nose,” he said. “My eyes saw what kind of a business it was right away. As I walked towards the office, I saw someone leaving that I recognized.”

“Who was it?”

“One of the guards from the Tombs — a vicious thug who liked to beat up prisoners for fun. I was always on the fourth tier where those of us charged with lesser offenses were kept. O’Gara made our lives a misery, I can tell you.”

“O’Gara?” echoed Lyman. “He was Irish?”

“As Irish as they come,” replied Steen, “but so was Mr. Lovell, though his accent was much slighter. I think he must have kissed the Blarney stone, because he had the gift of the gab, but O’Gara gave him away. If he’s employing someone like that, then it’s to do Lovell’s dirty work. It’s all that cruel Irish bastard is fit for.”

“Did you get a specimen of Lovell’s handwriting?”

“I did indeed. When I asked for a job, he turned me down, saying that he already had enough men on his books. So I told him I was desperate for work of any kind and that I’d be grateful if he could suggest anywhere else I could try.” Steen fished a piece of paper from his inside pocket. “He gave me an address of a warehouse on the Lower East Side. He said they might be able to use a pair of strong arms there.” He passed the paper to Lyman. “This is what he wrote.”

“Well done, Matt,” said the detective, taking out the note that had been sent to Culver that morning. “I can now put a theory of mine to the test.” Placing the two pieces of paper side by side, he beckoned Steen closer. “What do you think?”

“It looks like the same hand, Mr. Lyman.”

“It is the same hand — I swear it!”

“What does that prove?”

“It proves that Barnett Lovell is just as big a liar as a lawyer called William Hazelhurst. That’s exactly what I expected.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, Matt, they’re in this together. It’s the reason I sent you to Lovell’s office. I had a feeling that Hazelhurst would send someone on ahead of me to warn his partner that I was coming. Lovell would’ve been on guard. He’d be less suspicious of you.”

“What was that business about an advertisement?”

“I had a very productive visit to the newspaper offices. I not only found the advertisement for Lovell’s firm in a back copy of the Times, I discovered the name of the person who’s placed it there once a month since Christmas.”

“Oh — and who was that, Mr. Lyman?”

“William Hazelhurst — clear proof they’re in this together.”

“I thought you said that this man was a lawyer.”